


Commensalism

by Devils_Open



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Angst, Famous Buisinessman Kazuhira Miller, Hints To Kaz’ Relations With Zero, M/M, POV First Person, Peace Walker era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25662355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devils_Open/pseuds/Devils_Open
Summary: Costa Rican liqueur.That special blend Kaz used to pester you about trying at one of the local bars.You never used to take him up on it. Maybe that was your loss.
Relationships: Big Boss/Kazuhira Miller
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Commensalism

**November, 10th. 1974. 12:30 a.m.**

  
He’s on about it again. 

Crocodile and Basilisk are thrown around in the back of the 4x4 on every skidding turn, clutching the wall that divides the cab and the bed. Mud makes the tires slide, lose their treading, sending flecks of mulch-brown onto the side of the Jeep. _Good thing Kaz commandeered an off-road with actual doors_. You never go easy on the turns. 

They’re chatting about some benign topic or other while your second-in-command swats mosquitos, complaining about the humidity being especially gruesome this time of night. His hairspray melted away some time ago from a combination of moisture and humidity, when pearls of sweat ran down his hairline, curling the cornsilk tufts at the base of his neck. His royal ascot is pulled loose, as disheveled as the rest of him. 

“You have to trust me on this one, Snake.” His aviators retain a shine even in the moonlight, somehow. Azura eyes far too milky around the pupils catch yours, and his lips peel back into a grin. “After everything, you’d suspect me a liar? You know I have no use for deception, boss. Honest.” 

Of course, _he knows._ He knows when it comes to packing payloads onto choppers and getting an honest story as to the acquisition, or whether the client’s in for an easy bargain, if a deal is worth the hundred-mile trek halfway on foot and halfway by boat that it would take just to finalize the contract. He knows, _Kazuhira’s never been a liar._

“It’s the best liqueur I’ve ever tried, Snake, and the locals say it’s a rare find. Lucky us, right?” 

You take his word for it. 

In other places, his modesty wanes as he twists the truth around his pinky finger. _A lot like Adam, in that regard._ His word depends on convenience, and the reality of any matter is always up for debate, regardless of how solid the circumstances. His silver tongue spits emerald fire at you, and you stopped minding the white lies a long time ago. 

You can recall only a handful of times he’s outright deceived you, and he still somehow always managed to make it feel like he really was telling the truth. All of that ‘ _scout’s honor_ ’ bullshit somehow bled into the facade as a last-ditch effort, justified everything along with that honeyed tone and conniving, sly grin. _He made you feel crazy._ It was never enough to convince famished guerilla warlords that he was a faithful ally, no. He had to get you all wrapped up in the falsities, too. _It never meant much in the moment. Hindsight’s a bitch, though—_

“Eyes on the road, boss. You with me?” His brows almost touch, leaning into you enough that you get the idea. _He’s worried._ Your labor pays the bills, after all. 

You nod, reaching below the dash and hooking your fingers around the release mechanism. Papers fly out with the breeze and he glares at you. You grumble dismissively, pulling out the folded map too heavy to float on the wind and try to make sense of it. 

“Boss, I got it. Let me have it.” He reaches for the folded laminations and you recoil, needing that edge of recklessness to keep you centered while you drive. 

You can’t make sense of the writing in this light. _It all looks the same_. Railroad tracks decades out of use blend in with the scarce main roads, along with the newer trails that’ve been sharpied in by your hands and countless others. Your trailblazing off-roads tend to lead to fishing villages along the water, civv areas that aren’t to be disturbed, but a few point the way towards major compounds, payload caches still awaiting pickup. _But that’s all Kazuhira’s business,_ not yours. 

He reaches for the map again saying something about you getting everyone killed, and this time you let him take it from you. He grabs a flashlight, scrutinizing the paper. 

“How long?” 

“Hard to say.” He combs a hand through his unruly locks, blowing at mosquitos swarming his face. “There’s at least a couple of hours ahead of us. And that’s assuming we don’t find ourselves stuck in the mud somewhere out of range of home base’s comms, or—“ he swats at buzzing insects vying for the warmth of the flashlight, “or falling victim to the local _fauna_. I’d wager in good faith of the terrain we marked out we’ll make it there by two in the morning, give or take.” 

A pothole snags a tire and the whole vehicle bounces on its rickety suspension. Kazuhira’s head barely misses the mock-roofing above you where bars shield you from a rollover, and nothing else. He composes himself with an ‘ _ahem_ ’, smoothing both hands over the front of his fatigues. 

“Hell, Snake,” he chuckles, flashing you that trademark grin far too flawless to be honest. “With your driving, I’d say we end up in another _country_ before daybreak.” 

You crack a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. _This is exhausting._ Kaz doesn’t miss it. 

He spends a few uninterrupted seconds mulling over the map, appearing to be enamoured with those winding roads, _or lack thereof._ You watch him out of the corner of your eye, and he’s too preoccupied to meet yours. 

He finally straightens back up and casts you a smirk, his tone a suggestive. 

“You know, we should be crossing through a town sometime within the hour. You could always stop, take a load off.” You anticipate that _one_ topic leaving his lips before he even utters the next word. “I’ve still got that bottle in my travel bag, if we rent a room—“ 

“No.” Your face is always stone-stoic, either neutral or scathed by an abrasive anger no one could miss. You’re not exactly sure which you’re projecting right now. “Can’t afford to stop.” 

Kaz makes a show of sighing, always with the excessive theatrics. _Always an extra bitch and moan for you._ “But Snake, we’ve been at it for nearly forty-eight hours now. How are you always the one to lecture me about getting enough sleep when you can’t even pull over and rest for five minutes?” 

Basilisk claps a hand against your shoulder from the bed of the Jeep, and theirs and Crocodile’s idle chatter is replaced by a resounding encouragement for Kaz’ plea to be heard out. 

Kaz is always undermining your authority, and with clear intention on explicitly doing so if he gets something out of it. Were it anyone else, they’d be shuttled out and tacked with insolence, left for the guerillas to pick up. There’s no room for trouble makers in heaven. 

No one bats an eye when he does it, though. _It looks too good on him._ His ego boasts a radiance that’s hard fought, easily succumbed to. 

He grips the bar above him on a rough turn and you can see the sweat stains under his arms, _he’s not so well dressed tonight._ Got the facade, not the clothes. They wear down along with that hairspray he slaps on in excess for his perfectly coiffed do-up you think is far too prissy and preening for casual affairs. He calls it style. 

You decide to hand him the leading baton tonight. 

He doesn’t need it, but the men love his winner’s smile and elated attitude, makes the disquiet silence between destinations more palpable. They could use a morale boost. 

  
—

  
The idle chatter is incessant, but you’ve grown to tune it out. 

The bartender’s hold on a twin barrel beneath the counter is viselike, with a special eye for you. Cuts around his lips, greasy, flattened-out crop of hair folding around the shell of his ear, the other side shaved; he’s unkempt, sweaty. He’s one sudden move away from a reflexive recoil and a slug shell in your chest cavity. 

_Kaz had to have noticed._ He’s always a chatterbox when no one needs it and a reliable smoke-blower when one does. Turns shy into daring, livens up the conversations, gives you a taste of warm camaraderie where it doesn’t exist. He could talk circles around every whistleblower and incognito operative boasting a civvy exterior in this bar all night long, probably have half of them converted to MSF’s tried and true convictions before the crack of dawn, if he felt so inclined. _And he said he had no use for deception._

Bartender keeps glancing at you like you’re devil incarnate, two bloodshot eyes with dark pupils flaring on your service weapon. He shifts in place now and then, rolling on the balls of his feet; his triggerfinger must itch. 

You give him a curt nod on every drink he serves you, his left hand never leaving the counter’s underbelly. 

He’s growing antsy on your well endowed poker face and you’re getting tired of his hesitation. 

_Kaz could always take it from here_. 

You rest one eye upon him and he’s making friends with a grimy patch of locals. His blinding smile graces you, washes your sins away or perhaps exacerbates their pull on your soul. Your conscience doesn’t benefit in any case, but he gets the intent behind your gaze. 

He claps his shady company each on the back and wishes them farewell and good hunting, _you're not sure if he knows they’re hunting you_ , and slides his way down the bar whistling a tune like some quetzal flaunting its rarity, singsong until the poachers come out and it has to fly away again. 

Bartender smiles at him like he’s chewing rocks; not unwelcoming at face value, but forced enough that even you stifle a cringe, biting your tongue thinking _if you’re gonna do it then just fucking—_

He waves a hand. “None here. We’re good, thanks.” He slinks one arm around your shoulders and it’s rough enough to spill your glass. _You can’t tell if he’s playing drunken harlot or ass-kisser._ “Brought some of my own hooch for the party,” he glances at you, “how about it, _Snake?”_

The bartender’s shoulders go tense at the title and you think _he’s really gonna go through with it._ You’re almost praying he will. It would be your definitive undoing while refining his confidence as a soldier in the process. A last good deed on your end, to further someone else’s resolve. At least you’d be the last man he ever hesitated to pull the trigger on. 

You decline Kaz’ offer with a grumble and not twenty minutes later, he and the bartender are doing shots debating whether Farrah Fawcette would be a better lay than Debbie Harry. Kaz appeals to the bartender’s opinions for argument’s sake, but naturally he’s of the modest opinion that _yes_ , hair _does_ compensate for a lack of sultry bedroom eyes. 

He’s never the first to back down as a matter of pride, so when someone drops a dime and wagers that fist-to-fist, he couldn’t take them, Kaz belatedly disagrees before blanching his knuckles and throwing a look your way that says ‘ _you’re not gonna wanna miss this, boss.’_

You down another shot and think _ass-kisser this time, for sure._

  
—

  
**November, 10th. 1974. 1:15 a.m.**

  
He was right. 

Septum torn, a dark line of blood slowly oozes from a distinct break in the cartilage, gathering in his philtrum. You squeeze his nostrils while he tilts his head back, watching both of your fingers coax it all out until his collar is a poached skin, addled with pretty, cinnabar streaks. He smiles at you all proud and lopsided, and the front of his teeth are covered in a thin film of crimson. His aviators are cracked; you tell him he’s lucky he wasn’t blinded; he tells you he had it all handled. 

You sling his arm over your shoulder and drag him out the back door of the bar, down stairs of weather-worn bricks and rusted metal. Even when the flashing lights fade and the cacophonous chatter stops prodding your skull, he’s still smiling; he keeps glancing over his shoulder like he’ll see someone he knows, or someone he doesn’t, drawing his lips in a welcoming grin as if even here, reputation is everything. _Can’t let them see you knocked down, even here._

You don’t bother telling him it’s just the two of you. It wouldn’t make a difference. 

He falls into a heap of pleasantly buzzed half consciousness and beckons you down beside him, limbs a limp mess crossed beneath him. Light pollution from the bar blocks out the stars so there isn’t much to look at, but the docks are close to the water, just about kissing the surface, and the undulating flow of gentle waves lapping against the rotten wood threatening to soak the cuffs of your fatigues is plenty to look at. Kazuhira seems to overlook it entirely. 

Metal screeches behind you and the door to the bar opens up. A fool stumbles out, looks you in the eye but doesn’t see you, slurring and drooling everywhere. He vomits over the railing and doesn’t bother to close the door behind him. 

Some special type of view _tonight_ , huh. 

He looks at you as if hearing your thoughts. He’s always more intuitive than you’d give him credit for. “Boss, it really isn’t so bad here. Can’t believe I’m saying this but, I’m even starting to like the locals.” He snorts. 

You don’t say much of anything. Squinting, you almost feel like you can make out the shine of Mother Base’s lights in the distance, a beacon against the pitch-black waves calmly drifting. _Heaven’s never visible from earth, though._ You know it’s an illusion. 

Kaz outstretches his arms, his smile infectious. “Look at what we have here! And look at you, Snake,” he nudges your shoulder gingerly with his own, “you’re taking us somewhere, and damn fast, too. I don’t know anyone else who could’ve done better, not even myself. I don’t know how you do it. You’re just,” he shakes his head, looking off into the dark horizon, “a real mystery, boss.” 

He’s happy, isn’t he? You wouldn’t know if he wasn’t. He’s never present, always one million miles away on someone else’s mind, signing a contract or charting untapped resources, exploiting buyers, even if he’s right beside you. 

But it’s all for you, right? _What does he gain from this?_

You know it now, as you knew back then; Kazuhira is not yours. 

In bed, at the end of the day, you two own one another. In broad daylight, he’s a people-pleaser. He’s greedy. 

He sighs and leans back on both palms, his chest puffed to the hot gusts of wind that occasionally blow by. _Where is he?_ He looks over at you. 

“I’m right here, boss.” The glint in his eye makes you wish you could go with him. “I’ll be here until there’s no more MSF to run, but of course we’ll be on to bigger and better things by then, right? I have faith in you.” You want to tell him to take you along on the journey, not to leave you here unsure and overworked _and so alone_. _You want his carelessness_. If only faith extended beyond authority. Running an army is child’s play but significance on a cosmic scale is another. _You only wish you’d meant something to someone that mattered_. He’s only here for the ride. It’s clear in his cornflower blue eyes that turn emerald as the bands he waves when the payload comes in. _He’s grateful for your service, but the true love stops where the work ends_. Beyond that though is a mystery of greater depth than the ocean before you. It stings your wounds like saltwater just the same. His allegiances are redacted excerpts on every contract you sign in tandem. 

An engine starts somewhere and a song begins playing, the tune carrying little distance as dull static overlays, culls the voice above the music. Kazuhira sucks in a hard breath and sighs. You feel his excitement prickling your skin. 

“C’mon boss,” he says. “Let’s live a little!” 

And you have, and you’re tired. _Of course he doesn’t mind it, though._ As long as you have one another’s talents, there’s equilibrium tantamount to peace on earth. No Zeke without Huey, no Strangelove without the ghost of a woman rattling the bars of her own artificial conception; no Big Boss without Kazuhira Miller. 

He drags you up by the arm and you know you could wrench yourself free without consideration for his own desires. But he’s eager to please, always has been. You’re the boss, after all. He reminds you every other minute. It’s not hard to imagine, given that one who has it made typically gets reckless somewhere along the way. You’re fine with his forcefulness. 

He spreads his feet shoulder width and drags your hand across his hip, wrapping both arms around your neck. He’s smiling at you and it’s like looking at the sun, far too elated to be the winning chip up your sleeve, too careless when he dances with superiors in the middle of the night to someone else’s song. He hums along with the tune anyway and pulls you in close. 

You’re thankful for him, you are. He’s ineffable on a good day, and inconsistent when he’s hungry for a boundary to push, teasing fault lines as though the ensuing earthquake doesn’t scare him. He knows his foundation will never shake when it comes to you; he can do whatever he wants. 

You look into his eyes, and he’s so greedy. Looking over to the endless sea only prompts him to pull you back, one hand on your cheek, thumb caressing the risen flesh of old battle scars. You’re not opposed to it; it’s not the first time he’s wrestled you in closer than you cared to be. 

Keeping your hand on his lower back firm, you can feel those two dimples at the base of his spine. He shudders against you. 

“Where are you, boss?” It’s funny how he vocalizes your thoughts before the inclination to speak them yourself ever even crosses your mind. You look at him and shrug, thinking you could ask the same thing. “You can be honest with me, Snake. I’ll listen, whatever it is.” 

He toys with the unruly strands at the base of your neck spanning out in curls from the humidity, humming pleasantly. 

“MSF won’t last forever, but I don’t plan on leaving _you_ any time soon.” He chuckles, that courteous three-syllable sound like reciting a speech, another formality. “Zadornov’s pulled a couple fast ones on us as of late, but I don’t think he’ll manage to bring the whole base down. He’s free to try, though,” he says, his grin renouncing itself to a suggestive smirk. His gaze turns sultry, his tone lowers. “I’d love to see my _boss_ wring his slippery little neck all the way back to his cell.” 

He buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, inhaling deeply through a smile, and you don’t deign to present him with an answer. You hold him as close as he holds you, gently swaying with the palm trees to the sound of a woman’s silvered voice encouraging the two of you closer like a willful onlooker, perverse but well-meant. 

His breath on your ear, you feel his teeth snag the lobe and pull enough to tease and make you emit a sound of vague discomfort, but you don’t care enough to pull away. He likes pushing your limits and his own, seeing just how far he gets before you’ve had enough. 

Lungfulls hot on your neck, he sighs against your skin, the heat mixing with the ever present humidity to moisten the surface. 

“Why don’t we head back? There’s still that bottle waiting for us…” He enunciates his point with a flick of his tongue across your jaw. “C’mon, Snake. I promise it lives up to local reputation.” 

He just can’t help himself. 

You don’t tell him off, and you don’t say anything that could be misconstrued. He takes your silence as agreement because at least it isn’t an emphatic ‘ _no_.’

For someone so profoundly adept at coercing others, he's rather transparent with you. You’re not sure if the way you perceive him is solid, or just another confused interpretation of his ambiguous motives. He’s never been crystal-clear; the water’s always murky when he’s in it, the wool over your eyes especially thick. Nothing he does feels honest, but here, it’s like holding a child’s hand; he’s just figuring his way around your boundaries. 

The trip back through the bar isn’t rushed. He hums into your chest and sways against you until the music stops, and you two find yourselves back in a crowd and he’s making new friends that he’ll forget by morning. And you’re following him through it all because you need him, even if you hate the noise. 

He takes you to the bartender whose gaze isn’t so scrutinizing anymore, asking for a room. They pat each other on the back like old friends, and Kaz asks how business is doing, like they haven’t seen one another in decades. 

In a rented room, he surrounds you in silence like usual, the only time he’s willing to be quiet and clamp his mouth shut for a few hours. All you get are the sounds you coax from him, and beyond that is up to his own whim. Nothing is required here, _there’s no one to impress, it’s only you._

Idle gossip dictates that he’s your lover, but he’s no more than a businessman in truth. He cons and connives and you’re there to piss away downtime when he’s not busy, or when he needs to stroke his own ego by stroking you, the silent brute whose strength puts grub on the table, who’s title he gets to boast in front of all his ‘friends’. 

You’re fine with him using you, because you’re both just exploiting one another’s assets. It’s only that he pretends he cares which throws you off. There’s just too much of him to reign in. 

He pushes it on you, and you don’t say a word. The look of satisfaction on his lips is enough to keep you swallowing because he likes to see you gulp down his word for what it isn’t, not for what you know it to be. 

The liqueur isn’t to die for, but it’s necessary in sating his incessant begging for you to just _try_ it. 

He climbs into your lap the moment you finish one glass, and that’s when you know he’s a loyal pet as long as you keep being you, desperate for your strengths, your money, your assets. He’ll bleed you dry and you’ll still digest his word above everyone else’s. 

Maybe one day he’ll betray you so blatantly that someone may call him out on it, but it won’t be you. He’s the ally of your enemy and the mongoose you keep to scare away the other serpents. 

He doesn’t want to hurt you, only to extort as he does everyone else, and you _know_ it, and you’d punish him for it if you could. His victory lies in the fact that you simply could not stomach it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Just some pw bbkaz notes I made while very high that got a little too introspective and obscure. 
> 
> Why not make it a fic, huh.


End file.
